Tilly knew better than to swing a dog around by its ears, even if she couldn’t lift it up; she knew better than to say what she was thinking. Pia was a damn loony. Whatever, though, seriously. Who was going to argue with a tower filled with women who believed themselves in possession of super powers?

There was the possibility they were telling the truth but luckily Tilly was raised to know better and such things were plumb impossible. She would play along until she had a chance to flee . . . or something—not like she knew her way home or could even get there and she wasn’t about to sell her body for passage because it wasn’t worth anything and besides, gross.

Sadly, what Tilly was not aware of was how easily her expressions gave away her thoughts; she really didn’t have to say anything at all for Pia to know exactly what she was thinking. It wasn’t hard. Her face is very expressive. What’s she thinking now? See, you got it!

And what was she supposed to do now? There wasn’t a whole lot short of trying to leg it.

“Oh well,” she said as airily as possible, which, given how breathily she speaks is very airily indeed, “I guess that’s that then.” You’d get the same amount of noise from an oxygen machine on its lowest setting, or an air conditioning unit on high.

She was delayed further embarrassment by a welcome interruption. Yes! High-five!

Hard. Yaka. For anyone unfamiliar with the expression it means ‘hard slog’, ‘hard work’, ‘a lot of effort’ AKA ‘something I’d rather not do.’ Tilly grasped the feel of the exercise. The metaphors were bloody stupid; she didn’t even like roses. Roses had thorns. Thorns were pricks. Therefore all roses were . . . ?

Bloody difficult.

Regardless, the metaphors, meditative exercises, were a way to tap into parts of her fibre she was not fully connected to. Right now she was crawling. Eventually she would run and these exercises would become foolish history, vague impressions of a formative period; that would be nice.

Tilly was a practical girl, to sit in a classroom and imagine clouds obscuring the sun was not how she wanted to spend her time; however, as it was her only method . . . well, I think you know where I am going with this. It is what it is and the medicine does nothing for you if it doesn’t taste awful.

Moving right along, it worked and Tilly managed to squeeze her connection with the source until it came as breathing through a straw, or squeezing icing out of a cone made from grease-proofed paper. All right. The last one was a little too easy. But the exercise was not hard in the conventional sense. The struggle came not in managing the trick, but suffocating the urge to let go and drown in a tide of bliss. How this was meant to relax her she had no idea.

As stated, Tilly was a practical girl and there was no logical reason she should find these lessons outrageously difficult; she approached them with the same thorough and patient mien she used for everything. Results were an expectation. Frustration was for children, resentment and anger for the frightened.

Tilly was eager for more. It was all making more and more sense, a small snowball gathering into a giant—well, still a snowball but much cooler to look at, of understanding. Sartorial upbringing helped. It made sense that weaves would be made up of threads; this validated her earlier education. Take that, vaunted education of Tar Valon! Ninja chop, karate punch, elbow to the groin!

Saline’s flame had been pretty; Tilly watched avidly. Each thread corresponded to an element, and elements were woven together to create. Just like sewing. This was getting better and better and Tilly was sitting up much straighter in her chair. Take that, rich and princesses and unscarred teenagers and those who could rub two coppers together without fear of one disappearing.

Something would have to be done about the colour scheme. Tilly couldn’t imagine any pretty manifestations using all five elements. Gleemen wore cloaks like that and just no. Ever.  Still, the colour combinations were as plentiful as stars. Oh, the possibilities . . . though Tilly understood aestheticism of weaves wasn’t really the point of them. A pity.

And now for the test. Before Saline was a cup, and within that cup was water, allegedly, but who actually knew. Of course, everyone knew aes sedai couldn’t lie, which was funny because they managed to talk a lot without saying anything even without lying. Benefits of their education, surely.

The thread being pulled out of the cup was blue. At least it looked blue so ought to have been. Tilly had once seen a man pulling a rabbit out of a hat and this looked just like this . . . only blue and not rabbit-shaped. All right. It looked nothing at all like this but reminded her anyway. So there!

The thread was blue!

Let us assume the exercises worked for there would be little point in commenting if they didn’t. That being said, Tilly was immensely satisfied with the results. Of course, Tilly was naturally cautious for you had to be when sewing, lest you prick your finger and bleed all over a now unsellable garment.

Tilly was not about to test her limits and she had oodles of self-restraint; the moment the tranquility of Saidar began to feel overwhelming she released it. This, of course, took some time as she drew upon it with quarter-steps and crawls. Waste not, want to, and don’t have your head popping into the ceiling like a champagne cork.

Saline Sedai’s question provoked an irresistible answer, but lucky Tilly managed to stop more than a very light whisper escaping as she said, “Frightening.” No one heard it—hopefully—because no one was supposed to. It was enough she had responded at all. Baby steps into the pool, for here be dragons!

Things were progressing slowly, too slowly for her to be truly happen, which was a lurid thought in itself. She had never wanted more faster. What she had was always enough and any gains were simply blessings in the disguise of more practise and work. A dress wasn’t sewn in a day, and good things took time. That sort of thing.

What had gotten into her?

So maybe . . . someone could move a mountain after all. Tilly felt less sure of her doubt in the radiant face of Saidar. She could deny it all, true, even having felt it and knowing better but it would be hollow doubt, outer-doubt as a form of defiance; Tilly was not a defiant girl—yet, there is still time—and she was cautiously intrigued.

Saline Sedai spoke truth. She felt it herself the moment she had released the source. Her body yearned for it; her substance lessened by its departure and feelings confused. There was definite danger there. Tilly could never have imagined feeling so good and could see how such a feeling would become a draught for the world’s pains. She sorely wished to experience it again.

Not being allowed to embrace the source without supervision made some sense . . . was there some way to force another person to let it go? Supervision would be pointless in a crisis unless there was some way to impose a disconnection. No one had mentioned it, and Tilly was too shy to ask; however, she was sure she would find out eventually.

It was hard to think there could be more to all this than the sublime sensation, but it was only the first step? That was amazing, and slightly concerning, would not the sensation prove a distraction? Could she safely do anything while holding? If her senses were to be enriched, did that include the tactile? She would test for herself . . . next time she had permission.

Sometimes life gives you lemons. Sometimes it gives you salt dinosaurs that simultaneously eat your family and spoil the earth so nothing will ever grow again. Tilly had never seen a rosebud, not very helpful; she wanted to give this whole business as much of a chance as she could.

Tilly closed her eyes and imagined a rosebud, or what she thought a rosebud might look like, which turned out to be something very similar in appearance to an average-sized dress button. Not that there was such a thing as an average-sized button, but there was such a thing as an average-sized button to her.

This was all rather flawed in her mind, she didn’t even know how petals were supposed to form from a rosebud, nor the steps negotiating there exposure. How was she expected to imagine something beyond her experience? After realising the question she’d just asked herself she felt rather stupid. She was smarter than that. Imagination was not restrained by experience; that’s why it was imagination.

Her rosebud blossomed like a soda bottle; splashes of bubbly water from a kitchen sink gathered and knitted. Her rose was now the colour of last week’s pot roast, which hadn’t been an attractive colour in even a pot roast.

The rose was hers. Definitely. It smelt like hot water and grease, and looked like hot water and grease. The smell, while not beautifully fragrant was comforting. It reminded her of home. The rose was hers, right? So be it. The Frankenstein of roses, pieced together by chunks of her.

She felt something inside her, a warmth mistakenly attributed to fond memories of her youth. The result was the same. She held onto the sensation, letting herself bathe in a pool of warmth and grease roses.

If you’ve ever been dumb enough to start a bonfire then poor gasoline on it you’ll know what happens next. The fumes of her soul ignited, and Saidar filled her. She felt thrust forward by many feet, everything closer and louder and more . . . just more. Every nerve in her body tingled with pleasure, the world’s greatest massage, and her spirit felt connected to things in a way that defied explanation.

And then, as the fumes ignite in a sudden burst so do they extinguish and Tilly plummeted back into the confines of her own blind, deaf, feeble little shell. She gasped, very loudly, horrified at the sudden crude perception of her body and the urge to be free of herself.

What? Tilly was so unhinged by the question she swayed like an opening door. That’s not what she had expected, mentally reinforcing herself against a barrage of commands and orders. Where were the commands and orders? She felt unbalanced, altogether nonplussed and honestly a little bit cheated out of her sulkiness.

Tilly didn’t meet the woman’s eyes, wriggling them around the room like caterpillars trying to escape; her fingers fidgeted abominably and the room became brilliantly warm.

Her cheeks were heating it.

She was possibly regarded, weighed, put into a little box wrapped with pink paper and a cute bow, but since she wasn’t meeting eyes or looking she wouldn’t know. She felt Pia, like a warm fire across the room, or a dark closet late at night filled with goblins and monsters. Her presence was heavy, insistent and implacable.

A surgical scar impacting an intestine. Whichever one was most important.

The presence grew heavier and sweat prickled Tilly’s forehead. It was becoming harder to breathe and she really had no idea why. What was going on? Pia was becoming larger, her question bouncing from the walls louder, louder, louder, until there was nothing but question and asker.

Tilly could no longer ignore her.

“Okay!” erupting like a wine cork from a bottle. The tension left, gushing out like air from a balloon. Tilly fancied she was tumbling through the air. “I don’t know how you can help me. I want to go home . . . but I don’t think I am meant to.”

Just as well she'd never had fearless illusions.

Tilly had not been late. Tilly could not be late. Tardiness was a genetic impossibility, like spontaneous human combustion, which . . . admittedly was more or less possible for anyone with the ability to channel; however, that would ruin my previous clauses so let’s just ignore it for now. Thanks.

Tilly had learnt the secret art of appearing so common-place and small beer no one really noticed her even after registering her presence (small puppies also have this ability, as do threadworms unless the former have eaten your shoes and the latter infested your body). She had every intention of listening to the lesson without drawing attention to herself whatsoever, having yet to make up her mind about this channelling thing.

It seemed all rather silly but everyone took it so seriously.

The aes sedai in charge of this lesson was late. Saline was it? Yes. She believed so. Tilly didn’t really mind; it wasn’t as though an extra half an hour was going to impact the length of her stay now was it? At least not by any more than half an hour, a period only important if you’re doing something that should be finished by then.

There were conversations around her but she was happy just watching; besides, her voice wouldn’t carry far enough with sufficient force to interject. The other novices were each quite happy to do their own thing which made life infinitely more relaxing for Tilly.

An aes sedai came into the room, the porcelain face told her (she wondered cheerfully if that face would crack when touched with adequate force), followed by an accepted. Saline Sedai wore dirty trousers that seemed more appropriate than all the white dresses—did they want to have to do laundry all the time?

The Dragon was mentioned again, the mad fellow allegedly responsible for making a mountain. She didn’t want to believe it. Yes, she had seen things in Tar Valon she didn’t understand and couldn’t explain, but she could quite comfortably shape a gown that changed colours as you moved; this didn’t require magic, only skill, and still contrived to be rather spectacular to anyone who didn’t know how.

Tilly gave the aes sedai the benefit of her ignorance—the woman spoke with such faith.

There was to be role-call, which prelated the death of her stealthy dreams. Tilly had quite purposefully placed herself as close to a back corner of the room as possible, all spider-like and safe behind her desk. But her voice just had the one volume setting and was not going to make the front of the room; that would be awkward. There would be staring and discomfort, like a solo pianist pressing all the wrong keys at just the right times.

With his or her nose.

She braved the long walk, stomach muscles taut and face pink from an emotion squarely between embarrassment and dread; she was a rather socially inept girl, and imagined everyone would be looking at her so pointedly did not look at them,  a shame when no one was heeding her march. But at least this way she wouldn’t have to meet any eyes.

Tilly introduced herself to the Accepted, voice sounding somewhat like a clarinet in need of a new reed, or bagpipes with pin holes in them: “Excuse me. My name is Patience Tilly.”

And just like that she had conquered the mighty beast of social foray. She felt quite good about this, positively wise in the way of dialogue and interaction. And as she retreated back to the safety of her desk, her posture was ever so slightly more relaxed and her heart beat to the sweet drums of victory.

Arad Doman to Tar Valon was a long way to cry, but Tilly managed. Up hills and down them, through cities, villages, towns, streams and wide open spaces: she salted them all, but it was inside her nothing would grow. She was dead convinced about that. Her world had been small but it had been hers and she cherished what few pieces remained. Had remained. Now she was to be replanted like a crop, expected to thrive and blossom in alien soil.

Tilly thought often of leaping out of the dray, making a noble stand in protest but never did; she had not the courage. Patience Tilly always obeyed, as instructed, what was best . . . what was easiest. She was unsure she even knew how to disobey, so instead cried silently, releasing her sorrow like the overflow of a hydro-dam.

The aes sedai had tried to soothe her, but Tilly was beyond consolation. She’d nodded in agreement with everything the woman had said and done her best to listen but it was hard to hear over the sound of her little house collapsing, and the hooves of horses pulling the dray farther from home.

When she wasn’t crying, she was sleeping, curling into a ball of dramatic misery. The journey past quickly, days whirling by like dust devils and tumbleweed. She spoke when spoken to, answered any questions in her breathy whisper, but otherwise remained silent. I imagine she sucked the fun out of the journey for the aes sedai too and that was probably her intention.

Dragonmount rose in the east, dominating the horizon then eclipsing sky. It was large, not beautiful, but coarse and frightening, dark. The aes sedai began to explain the ‘history’ of the monument . . . but Tilly did not believe her: one person could not wield such power . . . right?

The sun was down by the time they reached Tar Valon, for which Tilly was thankful. She hardly wanted to be surprised, amazed or delighted by something right now. How inappropriate! She did get impressions of vastness, populous, prosperity. Buildings and people where illumed by torch light, moving shadows playing havoc with her sight. In her lifetime she had really only known her houses and a little bakery down the road; a city such as this would lose her

An ivory column was before her, and she recognised her destination without having seen it. The bottom was brightly lit, the upper portion vanishing into the black sky. It was intriguing. How on earth did it stay up and just how tall was it? Those questions would wait, for the dray stopped and it was time to go inside.

I could attempt to adequately describe the tower interior but I would fail. What words or terms would suffice or capture the other worldliness? None I can think of. So let us assume Tilly was appropriately awed, and if not by beauty (for she is no aesthete) then by designs and patterns beyond the borders of her experience. It was, quite accurately, like stepping into another world.

Tilly followed the aes sedai through antechambers, corridors and hallways before being ushered into a seat before a door. The aes sedai handed her a handkerchief and demanded she at least try to wipe her face. Tilly complied. The aes sedai knocked upon the door and entered, returning a few minutes later. She said, “It was nice to meet you” and walked away, leaving Tilly to clutch the handkerchief and fearfully wonder what came next.